


like they were a perfect fit

by hapful



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Just to be safe, Non-Graphic Torture, bill's bullshittery so, emotional/mental abuse warning, relationship study sort of, stanford's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapful/pseuds/hapful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think you should have this.” His mother said, quietly, walking on eggshells. In her hands was a photo of two boys on a boat. Just a glance made the air taste like salt and sand and something hard hard hard and bitter.</p><p>“I don’t need it.” Ford answered, levelly, crushing the eggshells. His mother’s lips twisted before easing but Ford wondered at it anyway. Stanley, Mr Personality, was the one who read moods. Ford was the one who ruined them. “But thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Glimpses of the many years and times Ford carried around That Photograph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like they were a perfect fit

The picture tastes like this: cool sea air and the half melted chocolate bar he and Stanley conned out of shop owner next door with their cute twin act. It smells like salt and wood, it feels like the grit of coarse sand and the sting of sunburned backs.

It feels like their mother walking down the steps to the shore, there to pick her boys up when they stayed out too long. She saw what they were doing, laughed, made them promise to stay put and then came back with a camera.

“Say Pines!” She said that day, holding the old device up.

“Pines!” They shouted, trying to outdo each other in volume, an old game they played since long before Ford’s memory could reach. 

At that time his fingers were tacky with paint, his skin hot and red from the sun but he was happy. There was a shadow lurking around the corner, thrown rocks and nasty words and that hole that felt like _you’ll never fit in._ That ache that felt like _you’ll never belong._

At that time was Stan, chasing the shadows away, throwing his arm around Ford’s shoulder like they were a perfect fit. In his memories, in this memory, they laughed on the boat, and as they climbed off, and as they walked home with their mother, breathless with their stories and plans.

At that time he forgot about the photo, because his mother kept it, because the memory was fresh and kind and Ford didn’t need a reminder on stormy days.

\- - -

He was on the tail end of seventeen, bags checked and packed and checked once more before he saw the photo again.

Ford at seventeen didn’t need pictures and warmth and memories. Ford at seventeen was tired, was angry, was confused- but no, _wasn’t_ confused, because there was nothing to be confused about. Being confused meant that there was more to the story than there was, and the story was this:

A long time ago Ford trusted Stanley.

A long time ago was only weeks ago but it was long, and he trusted Stanley so much. A long time ago he thought Stanley was worthy of that trust, he thought Stanley understood, he thought Stanley was his only friend because Ford was no ‘Mr. Personality,’ he thought maybe he (a freak) was lucky to have that.

He thought Stanley was lucky to have him too, they were a pair.

He thought maybe it would be nice though to be more than StanandFord, he thought he was lucky to have that, he thought Stanley was lucky to have that, he thought why can’t Stanley get himself together, why can’t Stanley _try_ at anything? He thought why was it so hard for him?

(He thought maybe he was too strange to understand. He thought maybe that part of him was just _better_.)

The truth, the story, it was this: Stan wanted something Ford didn’t. Ford wanted something Stan didn’t. Stan took what Ford wanted and broke it, ruined it, looked at him like it’d be okay, stared up at him like _it would be okay_ alone on the street and it wasn’t okay, none of it was okay. Ford took what Stan wanted and turned away from it, shut the curtain on it, let it wither.

(He thought but what will Stan do now? He thought served him right served him right served him rightrightright _right_ -)

He was seventeen and sitting on the bottom bunk in an otherwise emptied room and he _wasn’t_ confused. The story was Stan ruined his dream and now he was gone. The truth was Stan betrayed him and Ford turned his back and now there was nothing else to say.

His mother came in, quietly, walking on eggshells like she did ever since their little nuclear family was shaved down to three. Ford looked up because he was fine, because this was fine, because he’d work hard and make a new dream and be something new and better from now on. 

(Make something better this time, his father told him, like it was easy.

At least that idiot can’t ruin it now, his father said, like it was easy.

It was the last time his father ever mentioned Stanley.)

“I think you should have this.” His mother said, quietly, walking on eggshells. In her hands was a photo of two boys on a boat. Just a glance made the air taste like salt and sand and something hard hard hard and bitter.

“I don’t need it.” Ford answered, levelly, crushing the eggshells. His mother’s lips twisted before easing but Ford wondered at it anyway. Stanley, Mr Personality, was the one who read moods. Ford was the one who ruined them. “But thank you.”

“It’s not about needing it.” She tried to tell him, and he shrugged to kill the conversation where it stood. 

She left the picture on his desk. He already had pictures of Stanley, memories of Stanley. That one picture, he didn’t understand why his mother thought it was special. He didn’t understand why sea air clung to it.

The next day when his father honked the horn once in warning Ford glanced over the empty room one last time and left.

(He stuffed the picture in a book and forgot about it.)

\- - -

He was almost out of his teens next, he and Fiddleford were cleaning up their shared dorm when the picture tumbled out of a book Ford hadn’t touched in years.

It wasn’t the drama it could have been, the baited breath and curious inquiries and dampening atmosphere and _questions._ Fiddleford already knew Ford had a twin brother, already curiously inquired and slogged through dampened atmosphere and questioned. It was a drama then but it wasn’t now, not when Fiddleford picked the photo up.

“You were a mighty cute lil’ fella there, Stanford.” Fiddleford grinned and it was sad somehow, maybe, Ford didn’t know. He tasted an edge of pity in the words and it made some deep, proud part of him twitch.

“Were?” He tried instead of steel and ice, and the way Fiddleford laughed like Ford said the right thing felt like more of a victory than his perfect midterms.

Fiddleford didn’t offer the photo back immediately, letting the moment stretch with the potential of _questions_ , of harkening back to places Stanford didn’t want to go, of Fiddleford’s brave but ultimately fruitless attempts to melt the part of Stanford that refused to let go just yet. Fiddleford looked over the photo with that maybe sad, maybe pity. Ford waited.

Fiddleford placed the photo safely on Ford’s desk. “Shouldn’t use old things like these for bookmarks, y’know?” 

Ford breathed. “Sure.”

\- - -

He was still in his early twenties when he stood on the lake in Gravity Falls and thought _this isn’t right._

The thought struck Ford back then, brought with it a moment of confusion before the sense of wrongness clicked. Out before him was water, lapping the same way, soft, gentle sounds all the same, sand and boats and sun the way he always remembered. It was all the same but the smell was all wrong, no tang of sea air, no taste of salt and that lack warred with the memories in Ford’s head. 

He ignored sentimentality, sat down and observed. He saw a tentacle lazily dip in and out of the water. He saw the small island shift ever so slightly, bubble. He saw a duck waddle by with it’s face on it’s chest rather than it’s head. 

He drew a boat in the corner of the page. He crossed it out.

The truth was he was happy here, in Gravity Falls. The truth was he was lonely here, in Gravity Falls. The truth was that the town was so weird and he was so weird and he should have _belonged_ but there was always something missing, always something sharp, always something small.

He went to the lake every day for a week, picking at that feeling, savoring that heady, peaceful loneliness. He drew another boat and ripped the page out. He regretted it and smoothed the same drawing he had crushed.

The photo was in an old shoe box, shoved under his desk, under a blanket, under a pile of books. It was nestled in with others of it’s kind, photos of his mother and his father and Shermie and two babies or kids or teens who were never far apart. Those kids were part of a pair, and in all those photos Stan was happy, Stan was throwing his arm around him, Stan was sincere and glowing a _liar_ liar liar. That Stan didn’t know he’d lose his whole family. That Stan didn't _ruin_.

Ford shoved the box under his desk again, tried to sleep, failed to sleep, passed out at his worktable with a half finished calculation under his fingertips and a phial of ectoplasm pressed against his cheek. He woke up, forgot to shower, prepared breakfast alone until one of the gnomes that tried to raid his ice box only to get stuck in it informed him he was out of milk. 

“Do you ever feel like something’s missing?” He asked the unimpressed gnome.

“Aren’t you a little young for that kind of thing?” The unimpressed gnome asked back.

Ford sighed. “Stop eating my butter dish.”

He took the photo to the lake that day, then again another day, then again. He savored that heady, peaceful loneliness, that twinge when his fingers wanted to scribble out blueprints for boats, new ideas for the helm, the elegant curves of the hull.

His fingers twitched, his pen hard against the page. He drew a boat. _There is no other place I would rather be in Gravity Falls than the lake. It reminds me of my childhood ...Glass Shard Beach._ He crossed the boat out.

He stuffed the picture deeper in box, far away. He visited the lake again the next morning and still felt peace.

\- - -

He was in his late twenties when he realized Bill was what he was missing.

“Must have been tough, IQ.” Bill told him once, a faint buzz at the back of his skull, a perpetual laugh echoing off the walls of his mind. “Never having any true friends growing up in that boring old town. Humans, they’re real fickle, aren’t they? Can’t see something great when it’s right in front of them!”

Part of his brain thought _but Stanley._ Another thought _he’s right._ The rest chorused _he’d know, he knows everything, he’s watching, he’s seen._

Ford smiled and said, “Well, now I have you.”

It was true. It was enough. It’s what was missing.

Bill laughed and said, “Until the end of time.”

He didn't think about photographs.

 

In his late twenties the story was this:

A long time ago Ford trusted Bill.

A long time ago was only days (weeks) ( _months_ ) ago but it was long, wasn’t it long? And he trusted Bill so much. A long time ago he thought Bill was worthy of that trust, he thought Bill understood, he thought Bill was his only friend because Ford was- because Ford was-

Because Ford _was_ something worthy. Because Bill _saw_ something worthy. Because Bill called himself lucky to find someone like him.

The truth, the story, it was this: Bill wanted something Ford didn’t. Ford wanted something Bill didn’t. Bill took what Ford wanted and broke it, ruined it, looked at him like it was funny, stared down at him like _it would be cute to watch you try,_ hovering above Ford like a god and it wasn’t funny, none of it was funny. Ford took what Bill wanted and tried to spit it back in Bill’s eye, but Bill was too high up, too unreachable, too much of a _liar_ liar liar dirty rotten _liar_ -

 

In his late twenties he watched his own fingers rustle through a box of photos.

 _No_ , his mouth tried to form but he was smiling instead, Bill’s laughter bubbling on his lips. An endless litany of commentary was spilling out of him, all

this one’s cute, Sixer!

and a rip

yeesh, how long have you had those ugly specs of yours, huh?

and a rip

this would allll be over if you were good and L I S T E N E D .

and a rip.

_Stop_ , his limbs tried to follow the command but he was tired, so tired, so achingly tired and his hands ran over every photo’s glossy surface, tearing the memory apart.

This is your fault kid, his mouth told him and he knew it was right. He was tired so he failed, he was foolish so he failed, he was sentimental, he wanted something warm and safe, his mind wandered to memories then boxes then Bill _knew_ so he failed.

He was halfway through the box before he wrestled his hands back, slamming his head against the desk in a shriek of frustration.

 

In his late twenties his head was heavy, so heavy, so sore and full of cotton and dried blood was flacking off twine keeping some delicate skin of his skull shut and he _did it_ , he thought, he did it, he did it, he did it.

When he dreamt Bill was still there, and he woke up screaming.

 

In his late twenties his head was still heavy and he was still so sore and still so achingly tired. He never cleaned up the mess he made when he put the plate against his skull, left it to rot. He never cleaned up the mess Bill made when he tore apart the records of Ford’s childhood and left it to rot.

Ford cleaned it up then, tired, sore, too paper thin to bother with the vain hope of salvage. Some photos remained, so few, and when he tipped the box over at the bottom was one of two boys by a decrepit old boat on the shore.

His eyes were warm, then wet, as he clutched it close. He tried to picture salt and sand and black, tacky paint. He tried to picture an arm around his shoulder, like a perfect fit. He tried to picture shadows chased away.

 

In his late twenties all his dreams were nightmares.

When he woke up he’d clutch his arms, clutch his chest, clutch the coat he didn’t bother taking off anymore and searched his pockets. He pulled out the photo, ran his hands over it, thought 

_you didn’t get this you liar_. He thought 

_how did everything go so wrong?_ He thought 

_was I wrong?_ He thought 

_Stanley, what would you say? What would you do?_

His breathing would even, his heart would slow. He wasn’t naive enough to go back to sleep.

\- - -

He was twenty eight when his heart caved.

The cave in led to a postcard, led to hours of wondering what to say, maybe

 _Help me_ or

 _I want to see you before_ or

 _I need to see you before_ or

 _Can I trust you_ or

 _You owe me this_ or

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

He wrote ‘ _Please come._ ’ Stanley came.

The photo was in his pocket, next to his chest, as Stan put a hand on his shoulder like a perfect fit and said they could work this out. It was pressed against his heartbeat when he told Stan to go far away, take the journal, sail on a boat and see everything they dreamed about. Stan’s withered dream.

Stanley said _Some brother you turned out to be_ and Ford’s mind buzzed. Stanley pushed him and he lifted and all the hurt and anger and _anger_ and burning betrayal froze into fear. Stanley’s name shot out of him, clawing and desperate, and he thought 

_help me_ , he was a kid again and Stanley was there, Stanley could save him, Stanley had to save him, Stanley could, Stanley-

\- - -

He was twenty eight, thought he was still twenty eight, when he finally stopped running.

In this world, maybe the world Bill always wanted to be free of, maybe the world Bill wanted his world to be, Ford didn’t know time or reality or _existence_ like it was a meaningful thing. The walls breathed and he wanted to say I’m strong, I’m stronger than Fiddleford. The sky beat like a heart and he wanted to whisper I’m sorry Fiddleford I’m sorry Fiddleford oh god I’m so sorry I did this to you.

He could finally stop running, for that moment, and he spat at the ground. The sound came out like Stanley’s name, like a curse, and he _hated_ , he hated so purely and so strongly, he was just screams and loathing and _you_

_idiot you_

_traitor you_

_useless you_

_how could you how could you why did I trust you again why why why._

The photo was still firmly against his heart. He placed his hand in his pocket, ran his thumb over the already worn corners but didn’t pull the picture out. He felt calmer with it under the pads of his fingers. He _hated_ , he hated so purely and so strongly but his breath still eased in his throat.

He kept running.

 

He was probably thirty when his hate and burning and loathing cracked into a desperate melancholy.

The edges of the photo were so worn and Ford was almost scared to pull the photo out, frightened to see it somehow corrupted by his own bitter hatred, by his refusal to look at it for what might have been years, might have been more, might have been nothing at all.

This new world wasn’t so like a carcass Bill was hiding in. In this new world he still ran but he was stronger now, in some way. In this new world the weight of all his mistakes began crashing down.

He looked at the photo and could smell salt and paint and Stan _burning._

He let himself crack, just that once. He got up when the pieces settled and ran again.

 

He was probably in his forties when the photo’s almost stolen.

It was even older now, even more faded, nicked in this corner from a creature taking a slash at his chest, stained in that corner from some residue he forgot to wash off his fingers. It looked older than Ford was and it scared Ford, a desperate tug at his gut of what if, what if he lost it, what if it ripped, what if it fell apart, the last piece of home he had.

In this new world there was far more peace, and Ford didn’t need to run. In this world they talked about auras and emotions and sentimentality like it was gold and jewels and precious. In this world he learned his photo was worth a small fortune, enough that even a whiff had beings shocked, impressed, hungry.

Ford killed before, killed creatures that were mere beasts, creatures that were sentient, creatures that were smarter than _him_. When the creatures, bandits, demanded the photo or his life he told them to walk away or suffer the consequence.

They didn’t walk away. He killed them and limped away feeling nothing but ‘ _I told you so._ ’

 

He was probably in his fifties when he truly gave up ever going home. 

He accepted it, deep in his bones, a feeling that both stung and rang out with relief. Ford always knew before it would be for the best, that Stanley would know better, Stanley would read his warnings and know not to risk everything for ‘some brother he turned out to be.’ Stanley would leave his journal there, or maybe hide it in some last respect to his lost brother. Bill would never have his way. Things would be alright.

It was easier then, to take out the photo and imagine seeing Stan again. He’d say 

‘What a pair we were, huh?’ 

and Stan would probably smile, probably sling his arm around Ford’s shoulders like a perfect fit, and they’d probably laugh through the bitter lump in Ford’s chest.

He thought maybe he’d find a world with a vast ocean and explore it. He thought of telling Stanley he thought so. He thought of the wrath in Stan's eyes right after Ford asked him to sail away.

He thought how he still didn't understand _why._ He thought 'what a pair we were' through a bitter lump in his chest.

\- - -

He learned he was fifty eight when he stormed down to the basement to fix the mess Stan made.

Ford wanted to be rage and hatred and loathing but there was a pit in him that was cold instead. He didn’t think as his hand reached into his pocket, touching the worn edge of the photo, grounding and real and _why_ did Stanley do it? Why didn’t he listen? Why didn’t he ever, _ever_ understand?

Ford wanted the rage desperately, the white hot righteous indignation he felt so many times before but instead the edges of him felt numb, felt out of place, felt sparking and crackling and fried like the portal before him. The edges of him felt watched because he knew, Ford knew what this meant, the price of his ‘rescue.’ 

Thirty years ago the room was nothing but metal and eyes and whispers. Thirty years later and he still heard their echo.

 

He was fifty eight and he didn’t look at the photograph late at night anymore.

He couldn’t stop himself from touching it sometimes, unconsciously, but he didn’t think about it. Instead he thought about Bill, he always thought about Bill, his head was full of metal and plans and _Bill_ like it had been for years.

There wasn’t time for photographs in a world Bill destroyed. There wasn’t time for anything but fixing mistakes because-

_-you care more about your dumb mysteries then your family? Then you can **have them** -_

-fixing his mistake meant peace. Fixing his mistake meant honor. Fixing his mistake meant _sleep_ and heroes and something worthwhile in an unworthy, smoldering mess.

He didn’t think of photographs.

There was a photograph on the fried console of the portal, framed and clean of Dipper and Mabel smiling. He looked at it sometimes, smiled, thought heroic things like _I’ll protect you_ and _this is what you’re fighting for._ A family, not -

_\- you stay away from the kids, I don't want them in danger. Because as far as I'm concerned, they're the only family I have left-_

\- a ruined, broken world, not the pieces of what should have been his greatest triumph.

He thought about photographs.

\- - -

He was fifty eight and the world was over.

 _Never_ , his mouth tried to form but his lips wouldn’t listen, his tongue wouldn’t work, his throat was cracked up and down. An endless litany of commentary was spilling out around him, all

it doesn’t have to be this way, Sixer!

and pain

I have all the time in the world! Killed it even!

and pain

alright, alright, how about some audience P A R T I C I P A T I O N ?

and pain

_Stop_ , his breath wouldn’t obey, wouldn’t return in time for anything to tumble off his tongue, and he was so tired, so achingly tired of it all.

He wanted to reach into his pocket and feel the worn old edge there. He thought (tired) _what a waste it all was._ He thought (dazed) _I should have given it back to Stan when I had the chance, he’d take better care of it._ He thought (wrathful) _you’ll rot in this town you’ll rot rot r o t._

\- - -

He was fifty eight and the world was _over_.

Stan stared up at him, child-like, eyes glassy but full. 

“Who are you?” He asked with his eyes, or maybe his mouth.

Ford kneeled before him. Ford mumbled truth. Ford put a hand over Stan’s heart, over the inner pocket where the old photo was. Stan didn’t blink, didn’t recoil, didn’t speak.

Ford grasped Stan tightly and broke into pieces.

\- - -

He finally handed the photo to Stan. He said:

“Will you give me another chance?”

And Stan, he smiled like it was all he ever wanted to hear.

\- - -

He’s closer to sixty now, and the air tastes like salt and cold and the cheap beer Stan insisted they bring on board. Stan walks over to where he’s sitting in the cabin, throws an arm around Ford’s shoulders like it’s a perfect fit. He looks down at the photo in Ford’s hand and chuckles.

“I didn’t realize before what a ratty old thing that was.” Stan takes the photo as Ford holds it up to him to inspect. He goes quiet and Ford watches his face deepen with something sad, something old, something warm. “Been carrying this a long time, huh?”

“I suppose so.” Ford answers, and Stan shifts.

“Y’know it’s funny, looking at it again it’s like being right back on the beach-“ Stan starts-

and Ford continues. “- sun burns and lofty plans.”

“And Ma hollering to get our butts home.” Stan finishes with a grin. There’s a falter, like a record skip in Stan’s head, like a permanent twinge of scar tissue from a gun that almost took all he was. “I’m glad you kept this.”

He hands the picture back, and Ford smiles. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> one day i'll write something that isn't pretentious melodrama
> 
> this was not that day


End file.
